I've been a writer all my life. I even do it for a living now, writing software manuals and help systems. I've never really told any stories, though. I didn't think I had any stories to tell. Long story short, after talking with a couple of friends, it turns out I have more stories than I realized. I think most of us do. Anyway, this story is a piece of my life...a fairly pivotal one, at that. It's as much non-fiction as my memory allows, and as much fiction as the truth permits. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope that someone out there reads this and sees themselves in it, and knows they aren't alone. Don't be afraid to tell your story, bub. You have one, whether you know it or not. Don't be afraid to share.
Here's the standard disclaimer: what the hell are you doing reading this if you're under 18 or it's illegal for you to do so? Go out there and either get older or start lobbying, maybe both. Good luck. As far as copyrights go, you bet your ass this sucker falls under Nifty's standard copyright disclosures.
TRIVIA -- Part One
triv'i'a
Pronunciation: (triv'E-u), -n.pl.
- matters or things that are very unimportant, inconsequential, or nonessential. 2. Latin, "three ways"; a crossroads.
INTRODUCTION
I knew I liked guys from about age four, but it took me until my senior year in high school to admit it. By that time I had suffered the usual rounds of fag bashing, both verbal and otherwise. I was a pretty swishy kid, I guess, and not very straight-acting (but really, how straight-acting can you possibly be with a dick in your mouth?), so I made an easy target. I was also painfully smart--grade-skipping smart--and socially inept. Easy target? Fuck that, I was vulture meat.
So, high school mostly sucked ass. By the time I got out, I was shell-shocked and world-weary. To this day I'm amazed I survived. High school made me wary and distrustful of people in general. In some ways it had made me hard as nails, but left me painfully vulnerable in others.
I started cruising for guys early--too early--and knew more at seventeen than some hookers do about being safe on the streets while picking up a piece of ass. I was certainly tougher than most kids in my neighborhood, at least physically...or at least in terms of being able to take a beating. I wasn't one much for dishing it out. I didn't know squat about emotional baggage, or healthy relationships, or any of the new age crap we feed ourselves on these days.
As much abuse as I took in high school, I still had a trusting heart...which I think is maybe the only redeeming thing to come with me out of those years. Being beat up at least twice a week for four years does funny things to you. As scared as I was, I didn't know how to connect with others. I was shy, and awkward, and desperately wanted a friend, or someone to be close to. I wanted it so badly that my desperation was plain and obvious. Anyone healthy sees that kind of desperation and runs away. People aren't made to be life rafts.
Part of the reason I was such a loner was that my home and family life were seriously fucked up. We didn't have today's context and language of pathology to describe the crazy shit I grew up with, and it was scary to live through. I was pretty much on my own...everyone in my family was. My dad's mental health broke down during my senior year, and he was briefly committed. I suppose it figured, because he'd done a lot of paranoid, crazy things...but I saw that only in retrospect. Mostly I just thought he was a dangerous asshole. At the time, all I remember was that my dad terrified me, and I couldn't trust him, not with anything. I tried to tell him once when I was a little kid about liking guys, and he beat me so hard that to this day I still have scars on my ass.
Anyone who's ever grown up with someone mentally ill knows what it's like...and really, either you know it or you don't. There's no way to describe it adequately. Anyway, that's a bit much of a story to go into. Suffice it to say, it only contributed to the feeling that life was a battle, and I was on the losing side.
High school wasn't all bad, though. I came out in December of my senior year, and my newfound confidence brought all the bullying to a halt, with the aid of a few returned ass-kickings along the way. My grades were killer, my looks weren't so bad (six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, long blonde hair, bright blue eyes - hot damn!), and I had finally made some worthwhile friends.
Two of those were Alan and Damien. Alan was in my Calculus class, and Damien was a friend of his that I met when I got invited to play Dungeons & Dragons with them (laugh all you want, the game still rules after 25 years). Alan was a total geek, like me, but he was funny as hell, and could always make us laugh. He was mind-boggling smart, too, and put all of us to shame in our science and math classes. He wasn't much to look at, but he made great company. Damien was another story...though he had some pretty bad acne, he had a body to kill or die for. He was a serious weight-lifter, and was stacked and cut like some muscle-mag centerfold's wet dream. The boy was pure porn. I can't count the number of times I dreamed of ripping off his shirt and using his stomach to scrub all my dirty laundry.
I never slept with either of them. They were great guys, but our paths never crossed like that. Damien once told me he had thought about it a few times, but we never crossed that bridge. This story is really about one of Damien's girlfriends, Emily, and how she came in and out of my life, and about a guy who came with her, and how for a few months, briefly, we were Us, and it was good.
First, though, some background.
PART THE FIRST
This story doesn't actually start at the beginning. It starts a little before that, in January of my senior year of high school. The reason why is because I want to show you an example of what dating and romance had been like for me before I met Emily. I want to show you where I came from, so you can understand how totally unprepared I was when she and Rich showed up.
I don't know what possessed me. I had spent all my school years up to that point trying to be noticed by as few people as possible. Nonetheless, here I was, trying to muster the courage to ask Thomas Morrey if he wanted to go to the opera. With me. On a date. I didn't even know if he was anything other than straight. I didn't really care. I had spent too many years in school with him, growing up with him, watching him change from a short kid with bad taste in clothes and a really shaggy haircut, into a lean, quiet, beautiful guy.
Thomas had an intense presence. The way he moved was almost like a stalking cat. He had the most graceful walk out of anyone I'd met until then...smooth and unconcerned, but alert and ready. I wasn't the only one who watched him with secret envy as he moved down the hall between classes. He had long, curly black hair that always escaped his ponytail, and the bones in his face were all like fine porcelain knives. His eyes were the most striking part about him. They were a light amber, and when he looked at you straight on, it was hard to think or do anything except look back. He stood about five feet ten inches tall, and weighed maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. He had a lean, hard body from running cross-country and track throughout high school. (I had run cross-country for the first time in the fall season, and while I was the slowest guy on the team, I had a great time, and the coaches were really supportive. I used to watch him pass me, and sigh.)
I knew he had demons - at the beginning of the school year, he had laid down his bike at 85 miles an hour, going too fast on a road that didn't allow it, ending up sliding under a moving semi-truck and stopping, unharmed but badly shaken, on some old lady's front lawn. Also, in ninth grade, I had been sitting in a glass-enclosed stairwell that was maybe seven feet off the ground, looking out over the track field to the far mountains and drawing what I saw with paper and pencil. Thomas and some of the other track jocks had all come up to the window and flipped me off. It was absurd more than it was frightening, but it flashed in my head like a warning light as I tried to work up the courage to ask him out.
Asking Thomas out was a ballsy thing to do, but I had just come out to myself, and already I felt the world a better place. The fear of the past few years was melting like snow, and I was riding the wave of new-born confidence. Finally, I decided there was nothing for it but to storm the gates and get it over with. Our lockers were close, and we were in the hallway between classes, on our way to AP English. I steeled myself and walked up to him.
"Hey Thomas."
He looked around, fixing his amber gaze on me.
"Hey. What's up?"
"Not much, man." I tried to sound as indifferent as possible. I'm sure I failed. "Hey, do you wanna go to the opera with me on Sunday?" I held my breath, and felt my heart leap like a racehorse out of the gate.
He blinked once, fast. "Sure."
I was stunned. Was it really that easy? All those years of being terrified...
"Cool. Um, wanna drive together?" I was new at dating.
He cracked a killer grin, like I had said something amazingly funny. I thought I was going to melt into a puddle of goo under the wattage of that smile. "Yeah, man. Wanna come pick me up?"
Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears shit in the woods? Do these pants make me look fat?
"Sure." That's what I meant to say. I'm sure it came out more like, "Mm." I was too busy being giddy.
"What time?" His eyes had been on me longer than they'd ever lingered before. His gaze was doing strange things to my knees, and I was having trouble standing.
"The opera starts at two...but my dad will kill me if I skip church. Twelve thirty?"
He grinned. "Right on. See you then."
I smiled back, reflecting his warmth like a daisy to the sun. "Yeah, see ya."
He shut his locker and moved off to class. I watched him go, stuck in place, struck dumb. I gulped once and blinked stupidly, like a biology frog under a flashlight. That, I reflected, was some of the craziest, most intense thirty seconds in my life. It could have gone any number of ways, most of them bad. Instead, I was going out on a date with one of the finest guys in school. Who knew?
I frowned. Was it actually a date? I thought back to Thomas and the jocks flipping me off and calling me a fag. I shrugged inwardly. If it wasn't, he'd have to be blind, considering my reputation. I hoped my newly-developing social skills weren't failing me.
The only thing I remember about the rest of that week is that it took forever to end. I don't think there's ever been a Saturday I wanted to get through quicker. When Sunday came, I nearly cried out loud in church from frustration. I thought the pastor was going to set a new record for the world's longest, dullest sermon. When it ended, I broke every traffic law between me and getting ready for the opera. I put on good slacks and a polo shirt, all black, to make my complexion and eyes stand out. I took way too long to make sure my hair was perfect, and it took my mother protesting out loud to get me to calm down on the deodorant.
The minute I could leave and get to Thomas' house without arriving too early, I was out the door. The car was washed, the interior vacuumed, the scent tree hung. I was tricked out like prom night. I passed my mom on the way out of the house; she just shook her head and told me to have a good time.
Thomas lived in a good part of town, but so did I, so the niceness of the neighborhood was familiar territory. When I pulled up in his driveway, though, my palms were sweating, and I was nearly sick. All the nervousness I had overcome to ask him out finally dropped on me like a mountain. Had I really been in such a hurry to be here? I took a few deep breaths, and worked up my courage again. The walk from my car to his front door was interminably long, and I felt like every window in the neighborhood had someone behind it, watching me.
I knocked on the door. In the house, I heard footsteps approaching. The doorknob turned, and my stomach clenched. The door opened, revealing a tall, beautiful woman whom I imagined was his mother. She smiled warmly, and said, "You must be Matt."
My heart skipped a beat. The idea alone that I was going out with Thomas was a trip. The idea that I rated parental attention was simply out of my reality.
Eventually the parts of my brain responsible for language skills started firing on all cylinders, and I heard myself say, "Yes."
She smiled again, and held the door open. "Come on in."
Sheep in a wolf's den. No problem. We entered the foyer, and I looked around. His house was somewhat spare, but very elegant.
My mouth felt dry. "Is Thomas here?"
"No, unfortunately. He called to say he got stuck up the canyon, and couldn't make it down in time to meet you."
Thomas had a job working at one of the ski resorts; I remember overhearing that in the hall once. I felt my heart plummet into my shoes. On its way down, though, she kept talking.
"He's on his way to the theater now, and wanted me to tell you he'd meet you there. He also wanted me to apologize for the trouble. He's looking forward to the opera."
I didn't know how much more tension I could handle. I was nearly a wet bag of noodles as it was. These soap opera plot twists were more than my overexcited, high school, first-date brain could process.
"Thanks. I should probably get going." Nice to see I could still speak English.
She nodded, and showed me out. On my way back to the car, she called, "Have fun!"
I turned, smiled, and waved. It was too much; I tripped over my own feet, and ended up sprawled all over my driver's side door. I didn't look to see if she had laughed, and instead got myself buckled in and on the road as fast as possible.
I shattered more speed records on the way downtown. I think I actually flipped off a cop, but that might be my fevered imagination cursing any delays that kept me from being at the theater, now. After parking (too much time! argh!), I entered the plush lobby of the Capitol Theater in Salt Lake City. There were hoardes of old people in finery, clustered like dried flowers, but no Thomas. I had enough time to check my coat before turning around and seeing him across the lobby.
My breath caught. He was wearing black slacks, stylish patent leather shoes, and a purple silk shirt open at the neck. He had let his hair free, and it fell across his shoulders in rich ebony curls. He was moving gracefully, unhurried, across the lobby toward me, lips curled slightly in a smile, amber eyes fixed on mine. I think I nearly ruptured an organ, he was so beautiful.
"Sorry I wasn't at my house," he said in an earnest, gravelly voice. He could have killed my mother with a pen knife, and I would have forgiven him if he'd used that voice to ask for mercy. "I wanted to ride down together."
Be still my heart. "Yeah, me too."
"Oh well," he said, "we can get dinner afterward."
Eat? I didn't think my stomach was connected to my esophagus anymore, it had turned so many somersaults. But whatever. I'd have mugged old ladies with him if it meant time together.
I found myself talking. "Shall we go in?" I jerked my head toward the theater doors. He flicked his gaze over to the stone-cold ticket-takers, one of whom was giving us the hairy eyeball. She was giving us a look like we were two little kids she'd caught in the cookie jar.
"Yeah," he said, and smiled. Again with the million volts to my spinal column. I didn't think I stand another shot of his teeth.
We stood in line for the theater, and as fate had it, we ended up handing our tickets over to the Preschool Teacher. When we stepped up to her, she shot us a quick warning look, and her lips pressed in a thin line. I stuck my tongue out at her when I thought she wasn't looking. That earned another glare. Thomas cracked a grin.
I had bought our tickets cheap during the student rush, and to my surprise we ended up in the most expensive seats in the house (what's called the Grand Tier). When the usher showed us to our seats, Thomas gave me a look of admiration. It was all I could do not to fall over the railing.
We didn't say anything else until the house lights dimmed, people clapped for the maestro, and the overture started. As the curtain went up on the first act, Thomas leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Thanks." I grinned like a coked-up chimp.
Cosi Fan Tutte, by W.A. Mozart...all about how chicks are, and what fools men are for loving them. Thomas was all fired up about it, and he talked about the action during the intermissions. I forgot myself long enough to have an intelligent conversation with him about the characters and their motives, and we ended up sharing a couple of laughs over some lame jokes. When the curtain went down for the final time, we both applauded long and loud. It had been a good performance, and we had both enjoyed it. I was glad; opera is an acquired taste, and I had come to it early. I was afraid that Thomas wouldn't like it, but I was dead wrong.
"When's the next one?" He turned to me and asked as we left the theater.
"May. La Traviatta."
"Cool, dude. That was fun. I want to see it."
"Me too." More cocaine-addled chimp grinning. The man was going to think I was disturbed.
"Where do you want to eat?"
"I don't care, it's all good."
"How about Bandaloops?" Bandaloops was an artsy cafe popular with the "alternative", college crowd. It seemed exotic and daring to me.
"Sure."
"Have you ever been there before?"
I blushed. "Um, no."
"You'll like it," he grinned. "The crowd is crazy."
He was right. When we got there, the place was fairly empty, but I liked it immediately. The walls were covered with modern art, most of it done by local art students, and all of it for sale. The chairs and tables were retro pieces, none of them matching, and it seemed like exactly the sort of place to be for two high school boys on a date. The people were all nothing like I was used to seeing, being from an affluent white neighborhood. Strange hair, strange accents, different music...it was all so new. It fit the day's theme well.
We ordered and ate and talked. I can't remember a thing we talked about, but I can remember with painful clarity the way the golden light fell through the windows and lit his amber eyes on fire, lingered in his curly black hair, cast a small sliver of his lips into shadow, highlighted the small black hairs on the backs of his hands. It is a memory that is, to this day, as fresh as if we had just walked out the door.
We parted in front of the cafe, having come in separate cars. I was a little disappointed. I had wanted the day to last longer, and to maybe walk him to his door...all that syrupy date stuff we grow up hearing about. No hug, or even a handshake...just a smile, and he was gone.
I rode the emotional rollercoaster all the way home. It had been fun, but was it all that? I really liked him...did he like me? Typical teen angst.
The next day at school, my stomach was still doing round-offs in my belly, and I didn't know what to say, or do. When I saw Thomas after second period, I thought I was going to seize up and fly apart into meaty bits, I was so tense. I was so caught up in watching him, I didn't care that I was staring, plain enough for anyone to see. A couple of people snickered, and I heard the word "fag" under their breaths. I didn't care. My attention was elsewhere.
As Thomas approached, he grinned and waved. It was like being welcomed to port after a long time at sea. He was wearing a tight t-shirt and baggy shorts, showing off his lean body and knotted calves.
"Hey," he said, his voice friendly and easy.
"Hi," I finally managed to breathe out.
"How was the rest of your weekend?"
"Pretty lame. Homework."
"Yeah, me too. Well, later!"
"Bye."
Thomas was off down the hall again, all prowling cat and bunching muscles, black hair waving slightly on his back. I stared after him. Three lines was all we shared between us in the hallway, but I was totally enraptured. After three years of being an outcast, I had been openly spoken to in a friendly fashion in the middle of a crowded hallway by one of the school's elite. Already I could see people noticing, feel their eyes on my back, hear the whispers.
Finally, life was good.
That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed it. More to come soon. Feedback is welcome...please send mail to seraphim@coastside.net. Constructive suggestions are especially appreciated. Trust me, it's really going somewhere. ;-)